


Where Does a Ghost Go to Hide?

by Real_Life_Eeyore



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Flashbacks, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sort Of, Steve finds bucky, it's not that bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2020-10-01 20:27:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Real_Life_Eeyore/pseuds/Real_Life_Eeyore
Summary: “Buck.” Steve runs to him. His hands hover just over Bucky's body, not knowing how to comfort. Bucky’s shaking. Fever sweat and tears mingle on his cheeks. Steve can see the dark red of blood seeping through the fabric on his left arm.Steve and Natasha find Bucky after the events of the Winter Soldier.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be kind. I was really scared to post this because I feel like it's bad but honestly oh well.

Steve and Natasha track Bucky to a dilapidated Brooklyn warehouse. Thinking about it, It made sense. Brooklyn had changed so much since the time when Steve and Bucky shared an apartment but the warehouse was an old brick building. It was similar to his and Bucky’s old home. Maybe Bucky was just looking for a sense of familiarity in the form of a rundown building. Maybe he was just looking for home. The world around them had changed but there would always be little pockets that remained timeless.

A tracker in Bucky’s metal arm that with access to the proper files provided him and Natasha with Bucky's location. Unfortunately that also meant that whatever remained of Hydra could also hunt him down and Steve had the feeling that they wouldn’t let their prized asset go down without a fight.

Nat keeps her finger resting on the trigger of the gun but Steve had his weapons holstered. If he finds Bucky today the last thing he wants to do is appear like a threat. 

“Split up, we’ll cover ground faster.” Natasha's voice is hushed but still stands out in the deserted building. 

Steve practically tiptoes through the building. His enhanced hearing betrays him as he seems to be able to pick up on every sound in Brooklyn. The smash of a glass bottle, the screech of car tires, a man howling with laughter-all these sounds fills his ears when all he wants to hear is Bucky. The glow of his flashlight sweeps every corner of every room. 

Where does a ghost go to hide? Where does a soldier go to run?

“Steve” his comms came to life with a crackle of static before Natashas voice came through loud and clear. “I found him, Northwest corner on the second floor. Bunch of candy wrappers in the hallway.” Her voice was short and clipped.

All grace and caution forgotten he sprints down the hallway and nearly falls down the stairs in his rush as he races towards Nat and Bucky's location. He scrambles over broken glass from a blown out window and stomps through a mess of silver candy bar wrappers.

Natasha stands a silent statue when he stumbles into the room. She has her gun out and pointed in the corner of the room, fingers hovering just above the trigger. Wedged into the corner of the room was Bucky, holding his own gun with his metal arm.

Sweat drips off Bucky's body and the room is filled with the stench of unwashed bodies and the sour stench of sickness. His metal arm appears to be the only part of his body that’s not shaking but even so it holds the gun with the awkwardness of a scared rookie, not a super soldier. Tendrils of overgrown hair hang over his eyes and cling to his sweaty cheeks. Steve wonders if Bucky can stand without the wall that he has his back pressed to. Even through a stained blue shirt and a jacket that's too ripped to be of much use Steve can tell that he lost weight. His cheekbones are prominent and the damp shirt clings to his body, accentuating the way his empty stomach caves in. Bucky visibly flinches when Steve shines the flashlight in his direction. 

“Buck, it’s me. It’s Steve.” He approaches like one would advance on a wild animal. “Bucky you’re safe, please put the gun down.” 

He doesn’t get a response but the gun also hasn’t moved to be pointed at him. He keeps his arm locked in the same position. 

“Nat put your weapon down,”Steve whispers.

“Steve you don’t know-”

“Just do it!”he whisper shouts. He doesn’t look behind him to see if Natasha actually did holster her weapon but Bucky's reaction gives it away. Almost immediately he points the gun down at Steve. His eyes are wild and unfocused, pupils so big that there’s barely any blue behind them. “Bucky please, we’re trying to help you. We’re friends.”

Bucky looks at him and Steve realized just how bad of shape he’s in. His face is pale and gaunt but his cheeks are flushed with fever. His right arm dangles limp at his side. Now that he’s closer he can hear the wet crackle of his breath. 

Bucky please,” Steve begs. He’s willing to try anything for him to just put the gun down and let them help him. “I’m your friend.”

Something in Buckys brain must have clicked at that point because the gun falls to the ground with a clang and Steve wastes no time sweeping it away with his foot. 

“Steve?” Bucky panted as he half crashed half lowered himself to the ground. His eyes remain glassy but the crazed look is gone.

“Ya Buck it’s me, you’re gonna be ok now.”

“Steve,” he repeated, bewilderment coloring his every word. He reached out with his shaking metal hand and runs it along Steves cheek. It’s cold and leaves a smear of blood behind. 

Steve returns the gesture, cupping his chin with one hand and guiding Bucky's head up so that their eyes meet. He radiates heat in a deeply unsettling way. 

“I’m here,” Steve whispers. He moves a lock of dark hair thats hanging down in front of Bucky's eyes.

“Steve,” Bucky's voice goes from confusion to terror. “They-they’re gonna come for me. Steve go!” Buckys fights his hold and his limbs flail wildly. Sweat on his face catches the light as his limbs thrash around. Steve tries to calm him down with gentle words and reassurances but Bucky's terror only increases as he strains to get away from Steve. Bucky lunges forward which turns out to be a mistake. His foot slips on a discarded newspaper and he goes crashing to the ground, his hands scrambling for purchase. 

Bucky screams when he hits the ground. A bone chilling howl pulls from his mouth and he brings his knees to his chest. 

“Buck.” Steve drops with him. His hands hover just over Bucky's body, not knowing how to comfort. Bucky’s shaking. Fever sweat and tears mingle on his cheeks. Steve can see the dark red of blood seeping through the fabric on his left arm.

Natasha appears beside them, gently rolling Bucky onto his side as he gags. 

“Alright you’re ok. It’s ok.” Steve runs a hand through Bucky's dirty hair.

“Steve the tracker,” Natasha interrupts, “It’s still active.”

“We’ll take it out later.” He doesn’t meet her eyes, just keeps his hands on Bucky whose drifting in an out of consciousness. 

“Steve we have to get it out.”

“Later” he doesn’t mean to snap but he doesn’t regret the sharpness in his voice either. 

“We have to take it out now.” 

Steve meets her eyes. Her lips are pressed together in a tight line but her eyes are soft and understanding. “It’s in the shoulder, Steve we have to or Hydra will follow us.”

For a second Steve wonders how Natasha knows so much about Hydra and the arm but then Steve remembers her life in the Red Room. She knows how to do this but the thought makes his skin crawl.

Wordlessly they pull Bucky's jacket off. He makes a faint whine of protest but other then that doesn’t react. Natasha uses a wicked looking knife to cut away his shirt.

Gash marks stretch from his shoulder to the edge of his collarbone. They’re not deep but they are numerous. There’s blood under Bucky’s fingernails and Steve nearly vomits. 

“Hold him” Natasha instructs. Steve uses his knee to hold Bucky's flesh arm to the ground and brace his chest against the wall. He keeps both of his arms on Bucky’s metal one, ready to stop him from lashing out.

“Stevie?” Bucky’s voice is so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear it. He looks up at him with cloudy blue eyes. His lips quiver and tears runs freely down his cheeks.

“Ya” He chokes out, trying to keep his own emotions in check. “It’s Stevie.”

Natasha cuts deep and true. Bucky screams. 

Blood runs off of Natashas hands and Steve strains to keep Bucky from throwing her off. 

She has her knife wedged between metal and skin, like she’s trying to pry off one of the numerous panels.

“Stop stop stop!” Bucky sobs. His foot kicks. “Steve, Stevie please stop.” He babbles. “It hurts.” His body jerks and his head cracks against the brick wall. Steve hurries to try to wad up Bucky's old jacket and shove it under his head while keeping the rest of his writhing body in place. 

Bucky breaks into a coughing fit but Natasha remains undeterred so it’s up to Steve to try to keep him steady on his side. He coughs up a mess of mucus from his lungs. It’s yellowish and marbled with red. 

Natasha digs two of her fingers up to the first joint into the arm and Bucky doesn’t have the breath for another scream. He sounds like a dying kitten that’s wailing for rescue. 

It may have only lasted a few minutes but it felt like hours until Natasha yanked a mess of wires connected to a lump of metal from his arm. There’s a blood drenched metal panel by her knee. Bucky’s shivering and Steve uses the back of sleeve to wipe the vomit off his chin.

Natasha sits back heavily on her knees and lets out a loud exhale. She wipes her brow but only ends up replacing sweat with blood. The bandage that she wrapped around Bucky’s shoulder is already covered with blood and fluid. 

Strung between Steve and Natasha he barely moves his legs. Just lets out little moans when they struggle to maneuver him down the steps. Steve could carry him but he doesn’t think that Bucky would react well to that. He’s barely lucid and the entire way down the steps he was telling Steve “I can’t get sick, I have to go to work.” Everytime Steve would tell him that he didn’t have to go into the docks, that they would make do with the money that they had. 

Everytime that he looks at Bucky's face Steve can feel his heart drop. He wonders if he could have saved him from this pain or if they were always destined for agony.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We were happy” Steve whispered. He ran a gentle finger along Bucky’s too-sharp cheekbones and finally allowed himself to break down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School sucks and I hate chemistry but I've missed writing so I'm back. Wasn't planning on adding a second chapter but here I am!

Bucky let out a low groan when the car hit a speedbump. His hair drooped down over his eyes while he laid across the back seat, head pillowed on Steve’s lap. Steve couldn’t quite tell if he was conscious or not but he’d certainly lost enough blood for it to be the latter. 

Steve looked down at the prone figure that was half in his lap. Bucky's flesh hand was buried in his hair, while the other one was stiff and hanging off the seat lifelessly. Dried blood crusted on the shiny metal and flesh droplets of the stuff pooled on the seat. The dark grey shirt Bucky was wearing had been pulled up to expose a gash on his side which had been hastily bandaged. The gauze was already turning red. Bucky’s chest rose and fell in rapid breathes. After ten minutes in the car the air was already sticky and smelled of unwashed bodies and iron.

Natasha sped around corners, a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. The sounds of Brooklyn nightlife leaked in through the windows. 

“Where are you going?” Steve’s voice was hoarse. In the hustle to get Bucky down the stairs and into the car Steve had just trusted that Natasha had a plan but he hadn’t thought to ask what the plan was. 

“How much do you trust Sam?” Natasha spoke in a clipped manner completely devoid of emotion. But all it took was a quick glance in the car’s mirror to see that her eyes were red and brimming with unshed tears. They reached a stoplight and she looked back at him. “You trusted him with me, you trusted him with the world, but do you trust Sam with him?” 

Sam worked with vets. He was in the military, was a good fighter, and had some sort of medical training that much Steve definitely knew. Steve was even willing to bet that Sam was a good person. An actual good person, not a help when you want and leave when times get tough but a stay with you til the end good person. Steve had bet the fate of the world on him not even a month ago but he still found himself questioning whether or not he could take Bucky to him.

It wasn’t like they could just show up at any random hospital. They wouldn’t know what to do with him and on top of that would most definitely turn them all into the authorities. For a minute going to Stark crossed his mind. He was the richest man alive. Steve knew that his facility had an extensive medbay and Stark could probably pay for all the secrecy in the world. But something in his brain said no. He’d gone toe to toe against Stark a hundred times and when Steve had woken up in a hospital bed it’d been Sam sitting by his side, not Stark. 

“I trust Sam.” 

The car beside them blasted music and Bucky let out a whine. He buried his head deeper into Steve’s stomach. 

“Shhh it’s alright Buck.” Steve soothed. It was hard to believe that the “ghost story” that exploded a bridge and very nearly killed him was now in the backseat of a car, only half lucid and covered in blood and fever sweat. If Bucky suddenly slipped away and the Winter Soldier took over Steve didn’t know what he would do. Seeing Bucky choke on his own spit and scream himself into unconsciousness had left him close to breaking down. Steve knew he couldn’t look at Bucky and watch the emotion fade from his eyes as he became trapped in his own body. 

“There’s a water bottle in the cup holder, on the door.” Natasha said. “Try to get him to drink something.”

Steve reached across the seat, doing his best not to jostle the prone figure on his lap. He unscrewed the top off the metal bottle and swished around the stale water. Steve sat Bucky up so that his back was against Steve’s chest.

“Just a little” Steve coaxed, tipping the lip of the bottle to Bucky’s mouth. He swallowed the little gulps of water that Steve let fall into his mouth. He drank like a man dying of thirst. He wondered when was the last time that Bucky had actually had anything to drink. 

They hit a pothole and water suddenly spilled from the bottle. Bucky whined.

“Shit! Sorry” Natasha cursed.

Bucky broke off into a painful sounding coughing fit. He coughed up another mess of bloody mucus from his lungs. 

“I’m sorry Bucky.” Steve rushed to roll him onto his side, and let Bucky try to clear his wet and crackly sounding lungs. He wiped the water and vomit off of Bucky’s chin.

“Stevie.” His voice was so quiet that Steve almost didn’t hear him. “Stevie” His flesh hand grabbed weekly for Steve. His blue eyes were glassy with pain but focused.

“Ya, ya Bucky I’m here.” He leaned forward until their noses almost touched. 

“I sound like you” he slurred. “Couple of winters ago, when you got real sick.”

“Ya Buck” Steve actually laughed a bit. “You kinda do.”

“Now don’t go getting all sappy on me now Rogers” Nat said once Bucky had slipped back into unconsciousness. 

“We used to go dancing.” Steve whispered, carding a hand through Bucky’s hair. “Not out at some club but when he would come home from working at the docks and be all tired and sweaty we would dance around our apartment. We had this crappy old radio and the sound was always fuzzy but it was nice.” Steve shook his head and laughed to himself. He let the joy of the memory fill his cold body with warmth “I would always be stepping on his toes and I would tell him that he needed to go find a new dance partner. He called me a punk and just kept dancing. That apartment was cold and tiny and the rain would always leak through the windows but we were happy.”

Natasha didn’t say anything.

“We were happy” Steve whispered. He ran a gentle finger along Bucky’s too-sharp cheekbones and finally allowed himself to break down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you guys want a third chapter or have any other story ideas. I make absolutely no promises as to when/if anything will actually get written. Also feel free to let me know about any grammar mistakes/typos because I'm sure there's a lot. Anyway I hope you guys liked this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I got you.” Steve ran his hands through Bucky's matted hair while Natasha walked down to Sams doorstep. No point in trying to manhandle Bucky out of the car if Sam turned them away at his door. As he carded his fingers through Bucky's hair he realized something: there were patches were none of it grew. Most of it was pink and scarred over but a patch near his temple was closer to black. They were burns, some healed some not. He’d ask Natasha if he wanted to know the answer.vv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my best work but I'm proud I got something out during October given that I started this at 10:00 pm on halloween. Also quick note on canon: This story is set in New York and I know that the Winter Soldier was set in Washington DC but it works better for the story if Sam lives in New York/that's were everything takes place. Anyway I hope you guys enjoy the chapter.

“Stay here” Natasha muttered as she pulled into the driveway of Sam Wilson's house. It was at the very end of a cul de sac. It was an oddly residential and suburban area. It made Steve feel like his presence was an intrusion into the peaceful suburbia.

Steve didn’t grow up in this world. He grew up with drafty windows and a mother who worked her fingers raw just to pay the rent. Steve was raised with bloodied knuckles and the taste of cheap cold medicine was forever ingrained into his memory.

Bucky, the man who grew up right alongside him was still splayed in his lap. At some point during the car ride his nose had begun to bleed and Steve now held a nearly soaked through bunch of tissues to his face. 

“Don’t worry. It used to happen a lot, back when he was with them. It doesn’t mean anything.” Natasha had said as she passed him a travel sized packet of tissues. It wasn’t exactly a comfort that Bucky would have chronic nose bleeds when he was with Hydra but Natasha didn’t seem terribly worried. 

Natasha was brought up ballet shoes and blades and Bucky. It made Steve wince whenever she knew all of Bucky's tics that he didn’t. Back when it was the 40’s Bucky's eye twitching meant that a migraine was coming on, now it means that blood is about to start gushing out of his nose.

“I got you.” Steve ran his hands through Bucky's matted hair while Natasha walked down to Sams doorstep. No point in trying to manhandle Bucky out of the car if Sam turned them away at his door. As he carded his fingers through Bucky's hair he realized something: there were patches were none of it grew. Most of it was pink and scarred over but a patch near his temple was closer to black. They were burns, some healed some not. He’d ask Natasha if he wanted to know the answer.

Sam was on his doorstep, talking to Natsha. He looked to be rubbing the sleep out of his eyes but was listening intently to Nat. They were on the doorstep, storming down the sidewalk, then at the car door in under a minute. 

“Easy man, I got him.” Sam said as he helped Steve move Bucky out of the car. Steves own side had begun to pinch from old stitches and staples. The Serum was good but apparently not good enough to completely heal from a full body beatdown by a brainwashed super soldier.

Together Steve and Sam half dragged, half carried Bucky to the door. Bucky still had his flesh arm tossed around Steves shoulders but his metal one was tight and locked by his side. None of them wanted to risk moving it and dislodging the gore that covered the part were metal met skin. Sam had his own arm around Bucky's hip and one hand flattened over his chest in an attempt to keep him upright. 

The moist crackle of Bucky's lungs were loud in Steve's ear and the sound was breaking Steves heart. 

“Hurts Stevie” he moaned. Bucky's head pushed into the crevice between Steve's head and shoulder. “Steve stop” Bucky whimpered, blood still dripping from his nose. 

“I know Buck, just a little further. You can make it a little further.” Steve didn’t know if he was convincing Bucky or himself.

One look at Bucky and you could almost tell how much he was hurting. His lips were dry and chapped, causing them to bleed were the skin had split. Blue was replaced by blown out pupils and white was struck through with burst red veins. The fingernails on his remaining hand were torn and bleeding around the cuticle. At some point during their short walk he started favoring his right leg and was now leaning heavily on Steve for support. Dark hair covered his face and despite the fever that raged underneath his skin he shivered.

“Steve”Bucky sobbed as his foot caught in a crack in the sidewalk, causing him to lose his balance. Sam tried to maintain a hold on him but quickly lost his grip on the large and fevered man. Steve swerved to catch him, grabbing him under his armpits and sinking to the ground with him.

“Steve I want to go home” Bucky whimpered once they were collapsed on the ground together. “Steve please, Stevie I don’t want to be here. Steve take me home please.” His last plea was cut off by desperate hacking that brought up a glob of slimy mucus from his lungs. It ended up on Steves lap but he had much bigger problems to worry about then a pair of old pants. 

“I know Buck, I know you want to go home but you can’t.” Steve guided Bucky's teary eyes to his own. “You’re sick, you just have to get better and then we can go home together.” Bucky was full on sobbing now. Taking big gasping breaths and letting tears cut through the dirt on his face.

“Then we can go home?” Bucky looked at Steve with a childlike innocence that just felt so god damn wrong on his face. 

“Then we can go home Buck. I promise.” Steve put a hand on his heart when he made this vow. Steve looked at Sam who was crouched beside them. He was hovering, ready but not intruding. Sam shook his head when he saw the way Bucky coughed and spluttered. 

“We have to get him inside.” Sam said, offering a hand to help him up. Steve refused his offer, finding it easier to just scoop Bucky up into his arms and let Bucky bury his face into Steves chest.

“Can you help him?” It wasn’t just a question that Steve was asking. It was a plea, a beg from a man who would never die on his knees.

“Ya... ya let's just get him laying down somewhere.” Sam had bags under his eyes and was wearing sweatpants and a shirt that looked like it had been dragged through a thorn bush but his eyes were bright and determined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you notice any grammar mistakes or have a story suggestion please feel free to leave them in the comments.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time on the author has no idea when she wants to stop and just writes when she feels like it:

There’s a man with blond hair. He’s holding him down, pressing him against a soft and silky surface. A strong arm braces his chest into the plush material. It feels like he’s sinking - letting himself melt into the softness. 

Maybe he could just stay here forever. Maybe he could let delicate fabric envelop him and suffocate him in it’s softness. Maybe he just melt away.

There’s an explosion of pain in his side. It yanks him from his paradise and into a living hell. His back arches and he bucks to escape the agony that’s suddenly lit up his side.The arm against his chest presses down harder. 

There’s hands on his face, cutting through his blurred vision. They’re cold and small but gentle as they run across his cheeks. A voice whispers something in his ear. It’s in a different language then the blond haired man speaks but he understands it better then whatever the man is saying.

“You’re alright James.” The language is clipped and harsh but the voice is soothing. 

Another fireburst of pain, this time followed by a cold sensation around his ribs. He can’t find the energy to escape, escape never works anyway. If he runs they’ll beat him, it’s better to let them work and hope that it’s over soon.

“Shh, you’re safe, nobody is going to hurt you,” the voice whispers into his ear. 

No. He’s not safe, he is never safe. All they do is hurt, drag him into the chair and set his brain on fire. He deserves it though. If he’s not perfect then what use is he?

They do something that makes his stomach lurch. Almost immediately the arm that was pinning him down is behind his back and helping him sit up. He vomits on himself, gagging on the thick substance that seems to clog his throat. It’s not the water that comes after cryo or the dry heaving the usually accompanies his meds. Was he injured on a mission? His mind struggles to come up with an answer. The softness of whatever he’s lying on is incongruous with an operating table. There’s no IVs, no oxygen, he hasn’t been debrefied. There’s nothing that would usually come after a mission.

“It’s ok Buck, get it all up.” The voice is different, deeper and speaking a different language. It takes his mind too long to comprehend the switch in dialects. “You’re alright, I got you,” the new voice soothes. He opens his eyes for what feels like the first time and finally understands some of what is going on. 

He’s shirtless, sweat on his chest reflecting the bright lights of the room. A dark skinned man had a bloody towel pressed to his side and what he assumes is the source of the pain. A women with red hair is hovering on his left side, there’s a pile of small red stained white rags on the table beside her. His cybernetic arm is completely out of service. The place where it’s anchored to his shoulder is swathed in bandages but he can still see blood dripping down the prosthetic. His shoulder pulses with heat. The blonde man has one arm holding him up and the other wiping sweat from his brow. 

“Hey Buck,” the man whispers “Do you know me? I’m Steve. Do you remember that?”

Steve. The name plays in the back of Bucky’s brain. It draws something that’s both not quite a memory but more than just a feeling. A split lip, small and nimble hands holding a pencil, rolled up shirt sleeves, a feeling in his chest that rose to fill him up and bring a smile to his face.

“Stevie?” His voice is a whispered prayer, begging for affirmation.

The man beside him, Steve, crumbles. Steve’s hands ghost over his face, mumbling incoherently. 

He still can’t form the flashes into something solid. A name, a feeling, images flashing before his eyes. The entire time one thing comes to the surface: safe. He’s safe with Steve. 

He leans into Steve’s touch, pulling away from the other two people in the room. His protetchic is deadweight, there’s still blood dripping off his side, his tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of his mouth but all he wants is to be safe.

“Don’t let them take me,” he begs. “Please, I don’t want to go with them-” He breaks off into a coughing fit that has him retching up more of the thick slime. The bright lights of the room are making the pain in his head worse.

“Nobody’s going to take you.” He’s slumped against Steves chest. Steve’s hands are buried in his hair. He’s practically rocking him back and forth. The other two have stepped away but are still close by. They’re too close, he just wants them to disappear and leave him with Steve. 

Steve’s eyes are blue;they’re the color of the sky just turning to storm. It’s the only part of his body that matches the images in his head. 

They don’t stop hurting. 

Steve takes a cold towel and lays it across his forehead and another one on his neck. It’s too cold - too much like something which he so deeply loathes. Steve says he needs it and adjusts the cloth to shield his eyes from the blazing light. 

He accepts water from plastic bottle that’s brought to his lips. Swallowing is difficult and most of it just runs down his chin but he’d do anything to stop the dryness in his mouth. 

More pain. He can’t run from it so he turns his body into the shelter of Steve. They manipulate his prosthetic and he cries as a stab of pain shoots from his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” is said a lot. Steve whispers it into his hair when he cries. A woman mutters it in a different language whenever she changes the cool towel over his eyes, exposing him to the light. The other man says it over and over and over again. Everytime he says it he braces himself for the pain that will inevitably follow. Disinfectant poured over an open wound, moving something so that it feels as if his bones are grinding together, the familiar bite of a needle entering his flesh over and over again.

He’s laying back down, right arm still clinging to Steve. 

It feels too familiar. He swears he’s been here before. So sick that someone has to hold a cup of water to his lips when all he wants to do is be held, he knows that he has sobbed in the same pain of arms while somebody else packs a wound, the language that the woman speaks - he knows it well. He’s heard her speak it before yet her face is foreign to him. Everytime he manages to solidify one part of an image the other part turns to dust. 

Maybe this is all some sick trick. Maybe it’s a new type of conditioning or a punishment for failing a mission. If it is that then he’d rather be put in the chair. The pain fades after a while, it’s better than dealing with the assault of images and feelings that is currently flooding his brain.

“This is gonna hurt Buck, so just stay calm. Can you do that for me?” The voice cuts through the confusion and all he knows is that he could live and die for that voice. He would follow the voice into hell and stay there with it just to hear it sing. Maybe he’s already followed it into hell before. Maybe he’s still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roses are red  
I need rest  
I failed my chemistry test
> 
> Anyway I hope you guys liked the chapter. I have zero idea wether or not I'll add another one. Please feel free to leave any grammar mistakes/typos that you might have noticed in the comments.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... here we are.
> 
> Did I research, care about canon, make sure that this little story made sense as a whole? No, no I did not.
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy it.

Steve had watched his Mother die for years. He’d sat by her bed as the good days disappeared and illness robbed her of her strength. He’d watch boys die on the battlefield, blood bubbling up from their lips and begging for salvation. Steve Rogers himself should have died decades ago, the moment he hit the ice. Sometimes he wished that he had.

Death was not foreign to him. It permeated every part of his life. Before the war it was disease stealing people away, on the battlefield it was bullets and infection, now it was falling helicarriers and collapsing buildings that crushed skulls and perforated organs. 

This was not death, Bucky was not dying. He had a hundred feet into a fucking ravine than endured decades of torture, an infection would not be the end of him.

The wound is expertly dressed, bandages wound around his ribs and shoulder. The bleeding had stopped but both the sheets and metal arm were drenched with it. Steve had washed his hands over and over again until there wasn’t even a trace of red under his fingernails. There was blood on his shirt.

At this point the entire room was full of the scent of iron and alcohol, disconcerting but not altogether unfamiliar. 

How did it get this bad? How did Steve let the man who he’d known his for his entire life endure this? They found him in Brooklyn, the place where they’d both grown up. He should have known.

A low groan brings him out of his daze and Steve is out of his chair and at Bucky’s side in a flash. The high fever that Buck had had since they found him had gone down thanks to a shit ton of meds and cool clothes but it was far from gone. Without a super-soldier strength sedative, Bucky had been left to shiver in pain as consciousness came closer and closer. The past few hours had brought more and more waking moments but they were all fleeting and none of them were lucid. It was enough to force some Gatorade down his throat but not enough for words.

Bucky opens his blue eyes up to slits and blinks slowly, seemingly staring right through Steve. It reminds him way too much of the day Steve pulled him out of the hell hole that was the Hydra Factory. The vacant, thousand-yard stare was too much. Steve couldn’t look away.

“Hey Buck,” Steve tries but to no reward. The moment disappears as quickly as it came and he fades back out, eyes shutting once again. 

The waiting game continues.

Sam is a saint. He shrugs his shoulders at the ruined bedsheets and changes bandages like it’s nothing. He brings Steve water and food and sometimes just places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Sam, who was very nearly killed by the Winter Soldier, is helping Bucky.

Natasha slips in and out like a shadow. She speaks in languages that Steve doesn’t understand. Most of the time it’s Russian but every now and then the language changes. She’s quiet and more gentle than Steve has ever seen her. He thinks that Bucky understands Natasha more than him and it would be a lie to say that that didn’t hurt.

Steve is absolutely useless. He sits on a chair and watches. He watches the only constant in his life breathe, and twitch, and moan, and sleep, and Steve does absolutely nothing. He can’t help. He can’t help when Buck wakes up and the only words coming out of his mouth are in a foreign language. He can’t help when the wound on his shoulder starts bleeding again. So, in a lame attempt to make himself useful, he cleans the blood from the metal arm, holds Buck's real hand, and pretends that he’s making a difference. He is starting to wonder if that’s all he’s ever done in his life.

Captain America is a goddamn lie. The stories paint him as a heroic patriot, fighting and dying for his country. That’s not true. Stark was more accurate, he was nothing but a science experiment. He was the pathetic answer to a great “What if?” Steve had saved people, he wouldn’t deny that. He’s carried people from burning buildings and fought literal Nazis - but there’s innocent blood on his hands. It’s something that the comic books don’t mention, a very important fact that is omitted from museums. And in the end? They talked about him crashing the plane as if it was some great sacrifice, made for the greater good. It was, in a sense. They don’t tell the kids that America’s Golden Boy slaughtered people and then let himself die because he didn’t know how to live.

Before the war Bucky would sit vigil at Steve’s bedside. He would wipe his burning face with cool clothes and try to force medicine that they couldn’t afford down his throat. Every time he would whisper in Steve’s ear that this was not the end, that he would wake up with the sun and everything would be as it should. And everytime, by the grace of a God he barely believed in, Steve Rogers woke up.

Bucky’s eyes open again. There's no aggression, just passive indifference. He glances around the room before focusing on Steve. Steve knows that any attempt to get his attention will fail, but he tries anyway. Nothing. The man who fought a war with him blinks at him once, twice, before shutting his eyes and sinking back into unconsciousness. 

And so he waits and he prays like the good little Catholic boy that his Mother raised him to be. A dimly lit bedroom has become his chapel. Instead of a choir of gospel singers he clings to the sound of his Bucky’s steadying breathing. He counts the limp metal fingers in a lame imitation of the way his Mother counted the beads of her rosary.

It’s another twelve hours before those eyes open again, and this time there is a person behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't talk to me if you hate it but you're 100% welcome to leave any grammar mistakes/typos that you notice in the comments. I probably won't make the edits but there's a good chance that I'll learn from them.
> 
> About 96% sure that this is the end.
> 
> Stay safe, drink a glass of water, go for a walk.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


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